


It's Orange

by genderneutrals



Category: Half-Life
Genre: Butch Colette, F/F, Weed mention, d slur warning, gina doesnt know shes gay, its reclaimed, theyre lesbians harold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:28:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24987577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genderneutrals/pseuds/genderneutrals
Summary: Colette takes a moment to be nostalgic and quietly pining in the midst of one of the most traumatic events of her life. Gina is there, but she's napping, so be quiet.
Relationships: Gina Cross/Colette Green
Comments: 12
Kudos: 30





	It's Orange

**Author's Note:**

> hi gamers my brother got me half life brainworm and im an enormous butch dyke so obviously i latched onto colette. shes mine now. here you go

Some girl she'd known back in high school had sworn to Colette that the atmosphere of a room was more important than necessarily what was in it. She'd go on about lighting and music, about the comfort it would exude to whoever walked into it. She'd had her walls covered in newspaper clippings, old vinyl covers, rugs she'd found at flea markets, instant photos of her friends and shit she found cool or funny or inspiring. Cheap stuff that poor teen dykes could make use of. The two of them would lie in her bed smoking with the window open in the summer and, God, she would stare at that wall for _hours_. Just thinking, listening to the hum of her voice, enjoying the high to avoid remembering every other thing happening at that moment in time. That room felt like a sanctuary. That girl felt like a safe place.

And for some reason that room was the one she'd decided to imagine herself and Gina sitting in, instead of this decrepit hallway in some God awful corner of Black Mesa. Her partner had sat down next to her, leaning her head back against the wall and promising to just "rest my eyes for a minute." It had been forty. Colette wasn't going to wake her up. And since Gina had slumped slightly, leaning her head on Colette's shoulder, she wasn't going to _move_ either.

Knowing how much sleep either of them had gotten would require also knowing how much time had passed. She can make an educated guess--the answer is a bad sleep to time ratio. The least either of them could do for themselves right now is take a chance to catch their breath. It seems quiet.... This room and the immediate area should be safe. They'd cleared them themselves. Anxiety and paranoia still have root in her ribs, though, making it hard to breathe. Or maybe thats the frustration.

She's horribly aware of the walls around them. The miles of dirt and rock above their heads. The ambiance of a world inverted and twisted leftways. Any scuttling that would mean danger, or the wretched gurgling of what she can only describe as a _zombie_ , reaching out with its hands, desperate for her, desperate for her skin--

She can smell Gina's shampoo, faintly. Somehow. Colette closes her eyes and tilts her head back against the wall, afraid that if she leaned into Gina she'd startle awake. The both of them are touchy right now. Exampled by the way she's keenly aware of where her partner's hands rest at the moment. One in her own lap, one on her other side, loosely resting on her pistol. Colette's own hands rest in her lap atop her shotgun, pointed away from them both.

Except. Colette takes a slow breath past the dizziness of morphine, adrenaline, dissociation and a concussion. Staying still for too long makes her too aware of what’s going on in her body and mind. And she can’t do anything with that. So she breathes, and pretends none of it is happening. Her head does not pound. There are no guns, because they're in that room.

A mixtape is playing off a tape deck on the nightstand. The sun tilts through the window the way it does on summer afternoons, the breeze is humid and warm. And her hair is caught not on broken concrete but on those paper snippets stolen with sinners hands from Playboy magazines, tacked into the wall of an upstairs bedroom. And Gina Cross is sleeping peacefully, tired from a late night of good times, her cheek against Colette's shoulder. And she can smell her shampoo, faintly.

The sweet comfort of it could drive a girl to tears.

Colette Green is a tough girl. Too tough to flinch at a threat, chin jutting up at the taunt of a fight. Too butch to let her girl see her cry, too thickskinned to be bothered in the first place. Any other lesbian with half a brain would know better than to believe that, obviously, but you have to tell yourself _something_ when the world is ending and all you've fucking got is the body weight of Gina Cross and her auburn hair.

She thinks maybe she'd die for real if Cross saw her cry. Fuck the aliens and the miltary, the falls and the gunshots and the head trauma and the cuts and the bruises--they can all go to hell. If Gina gave her one of those damn _looks_ while Green let herself weep, she knows that'd be it. Doctor Colette Green would crumble completely, and then what?

What if she can't ever put herself back together again?

Colette opens her eyes to reality and takes a deep breath in through her nose. She looks over at the auburn hair, dirty with sweat and God knows what else, resting against her shoulder. The crick in her neck that Gina must be developing is enough to make Colette wince in sympathy. She wishes there was a better way for her to get her sleep. Even just her head in her lap might be more comfortable. She wishes she weren't feeling like she could start shaking just about now, from drugs and exhaustion and who knows what else. Wishes her head wasn't aching.

Wishes she could get her arms around Gina and shut her eyes and tap her boots together three times, like there's no place like home, no place like home, no place like home, and they'd be in that room and all of this would be a nightmare during a bad high.

There's a rumble. Colette startles sharply, lifting her shotgun. Her shoulder jostles Gina, who jolts awake and has her pistol raised before she has her eyes properly opened. The two of them sit frozen like that for a tense minute that feels like eons, their breaths sharp and fast. Two people trying to make it out of Hell alive.

"...just a damn wall giving in." Colette lowers the shotgun slowly, setting it down by her thigh. She forces her shoulders to untense, leaning back against the wall again. Show her partner she’s calm and comfortable. As much as she can be, anyways. "Get some more rest. I'm keeping an eye out."

"How long have I been asleep?" Gina asks, acting like putting her hands down hides how they're shaking. There’s a faint click as she puts the safety back on her gun.

"Not long," she lies easily. "Lie down on my leg. It ain't exactly the Ritz, but I don't think you want that pretty little head on the floor."

"You need to sleep…" She's already shifting herself over to lie down.

Colette shakes her head. "I'm alright for now. I'll grab a wink later."

Gina settles as much as she reasonably can, lying on her back, head propped against Colette’s thigh. It doesn’t look completely comfortable--hell, it doesn’t look comfortable at _all_ , but it’s better than sleeping sitting up, she figures.

“Wake me up in fifteen minutes?”

“You got it.” She is absolutely going to wait until the last minute possible.

“...Colette.” Gina knows better than to believe it that easily, even if her weary eyes are already closed.

“Scouts honor!”

“We’ve been through this. You weren’t a scout.”

“Doctor Cross, I promise to wake you up in approximately fifteen minutes.” Colette may or may not have her fingers crossed where Gina couldn’t see. She pleads the fifth, your honor.

“I trust you.”

. . .

They’re sitting in a warm summer bedroom, a humid breeze blowing in through the thrift store fabric curtains. Colette is angry, but not right now, and not as angry as she'll ever be in her life. That will come later. Gina Cross is asleep in her lap. A mixtape plays on the nightstand. Right now, there is nothing to worry about, except for the auburn hair brushing her hand where it rests on her partner's shoulder, and how she'd rather like to brush it sometime.


End file.
